There Is A Light That Never Goes Out
by KyraAnnCoombes
Summary: Arya/Gendry, ModernAU. Arya hates that she's been dragged down to King's Landing. She hates the city, she hates the King and his family, and she most of the time hates her sister. A chance meeting with a luthier's apprentice could change that, if her whole world doesn't come crashing down around her, first.
1. Take Me Out Tonight

**Arya/Gendry Modern!AU**  
**Summary:**

_Arya had never wanted to come to King's Landing when her father, Ned Stark, had been appointed as Prime Minister. Now she needs to get out, as soon as possible. King Robert Baratheon is dead, and his son had her father arrested for having a suspected hand in the King's death. So she cuts her hair, lies about her age and gender, and with a new friend tries to get to a bus that'll take her north—and home. If she can keep her secret until the bus gets to the army training academy known as The Wall, she can meet up with her cousin, a soldier named Jon Snow, and go back to Winterfell._

_Gendry Waters is an orphan, but at age 21 it doesn't matter much. He planned to work as an apprentice to Tobho Mott, the best luthier in King's Landing, until he was old enough to take over for the aging man, but life takes a wild detour when he meets an odd girl in a cab. Less than a month after a visit from the Prime Minister, Gendry and his new friend are on the run. Tobho tells him to flee, and fast, without so much as an explanation. He hopes to find himself a passenger on the long black bus headed to The Wall, along with an angry, scrawny little boy called Harry who has something to hide._

* * *

Gendry left the pub only slightly buzzed, tired of being sloppily hit on by drunk young women teetering dangerously in their high heels. It was shaping up to be one of those nights where he had more fun drinking alone, anyways. He hailed a cab, and was surprised to see a sullen girl already in the back seat. _Well,_ he corrected himself, _maybe 'girl' isn't the right word. Too young for the clubs, probably, but not a child._ "Taurus Lane Apartments," he said to the cabbie.

"Way down in Flea Bottom, eh?" the grizzled man behind the wheel asked caustically over the music pounding from an adjacent club. "Not the nicest part o' town, but you look like you can defend yourself."

Gendry cringed, thankful for the dark that hid his blush. He had no shortage of pride, but he _did_ have a shortage of things to be proud of. At the cabbie's comment, the girl next to him finally turned from the window and eyed him with a frown. She wasn't pretty, really: her wide grey eyes were heavy with smudged dark makeup and too large for her narrow face, which was framed on either side by nice but shapeless dark hair. Still, there was something fierce in that plain face. "Hello," he said tentatively, "'M Gendry."

She frowned at him. "Cat." It was more a statement than a response, and she turned her head back towards the flow of young life coming in and out of all of the clubs on the street.

He nodded. "Nice to meet you then, Cat. You, uh, you look a bit young to be out so la—"

"I'm 19!" she said hotly, without turning back.

"Okay! Sorry, I was just making sure you weren't in some kind of trouble or something." He didn't believe she was 19; 16 seemed more likely.

"Where was it for you, lass?" the cabbie asked her.

"Take me anywhere, I don't care. I have $11, so I guess take me $11 away from this spot."

Gendry eyed her curiously. He'd spent enough of his money taking cabs home from the pubs to know that her few dollars was basically enough to get her dropped at his doorstep and not much else. As they drove through a darkened underpass, he thought of asking her if she lived in Flea Bottom, but an irrational niggling fear held him back. _What're you afraid of?_ he berated himself, _This girl weighs seven stone soaking wet!_ He endured a few more minutes of silence. When he couldn't take it any longer, he bit his lip before speaking cautiously. "Cat? I dunno if you're from around here or not...Flea Bottom can be a rough place. Do you live there? Listen, wherever you live I'd be glad to take you there, or give you more cab money...I'd hate for you to be stranded in that part of town." Gendry hoped to the gods above that he didn't sound creepy or weird. A girl her size would get torn up in his neighborhood, and he was genuinely worried for her.

Her response was halting and hesitant. "I'll be fine," she said evenly, "...but thanks, I guess." She turned her lamp-like eyes up at him and something in his chest twinged without reason.

"You look familiar," he said, trying to figure out where he knew her from. "Have I seen you before? Around the shop, maybe? I work at Mott's Music," he added for clarification.

Cat shook her head slowly, eyes wide.

"No, sorry. I'm not—I haven't been in King's Landing for long," she explained cautiously.

Gendry sighed, his building coming into view. "Then I'm definitely not letting you wander about Flea Bottom at midnight. Come on!" he said, placing enough fare for the both of them in the dish by the cabbie's side. He opened the door and stepped out in front of his apartment, waiting for her to follow.

Cat bit her lip and looked around the dark, empty street before sliding out of the cab as well. "You didn't have to pay for me," she grumbled, eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

"No, I didn't," he agreed. "But if you're stupid enough to go wandering around the ghetto at all hours of the night when you're new to town, I'm not going to rob you of money you'll need for some other cab that could save your life. Where do you live?"

"How do I know I can trust you?" she asked warily, crossing her thin arms.

Gendry threw up his arms. "Finally thinking, are you?" He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, if it makes you more comfortable, I'll just walk you to the block, if you promise not to get yourself killed between there and your front door, alright?"

Her slim face screwed up in anger. "I didn't ask for your help, stupid! What d'you think this is, the Middle Ages? Am I some bloody damsel you need to save from distress? 'Cause if that's what this is you can bloody well fuck off, because I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself without a knight to save me!"

He took a step back, visibly thrown off by her explosion. After a moment, he regained his composure and spoke calmly. "That's definitely not what this is. I'm just trying to make sure you get home alright, okay? I know you're new here but things are _really_ dangerous in King's Landing right now...The old Prime Minister just died and hardly anyone knows who the new one is," she huffed, for some reason, "the King is a useless fat bastard, crime has been off the charts the last few months and the police don't seem to care. _Nobody_ seems to care. I've lived in Flea Bottom my whole life and this is the worst I've seen things. _Please_ let me help you get home," he finished, nearly begging.

Cat chewed her lip, picking at a frayed thread on the sleeve of her large sweatshirt. "Fine," she said in a small voice. "I live by the Red Keep."

He cocked his head to the side, looking her up and down and wondering what business a girl wearing a faded sweatshirt, a denim skirt, and cut up dark tights leading into grey Converse trainers had living by the palace. "Where are you from, Cat?"

"Braavos," she responded quickly, but Gendry didn't believe her. She was too light, her accent was wrong—the North was more likely.

"Right, and I'm the King's son," he said sarcastically. She was probably a favorite maid of one of the Prime Minister's daughters that had come south with him. "Come on," he said, walking east, "Palace is this way."

She followed reluctantly, trailing him until he grabbed her arm and pulled her even to him. A small drizzle began to fall, but neither of them seemed to care. "Did you say you worked at a music store?" she asked after a few minutes.

He nodded. "Mott's. He's the best luthier in King's Landing, and probably in all of Westeros."

Cat nodded thoughtfully. "What do you do? D'you just sell stuff?

"I used to," Gendry explained, "but now I do as much of the making as he does. He's getting old, y'see, and he won't admit he's got arthritis, the poor bloke."

"My uncle Benjen brought me a guitar one time," she mused, not directly in response to him. "Well—sort of a guitar. An eastern-type guitar. He's in the army."

Gendry didn't bother to point out that she'd just blown her lie about being from Braavos. "If it was sort of Hershey's Kiss shaped with a long neck and a ton of pegs on the side, it was a sitar. If it was that shape but with only a few pegs, it was probably a tambura," he imparted, looking around the street for thugs. The rain picked up, but there was nothing he could do about that.

"Tambura, that's it," Cat agreed. "Made really queer noises, drove Sa—my sister mad," she smiled, looking at him. "I've always wanted a true guitar, though, an electric one," she remarked.

Gendry noticed that the faded letters on her sweatshirt spelled some old band's name. He chuckled. "What d'you listen to?"

"Weird stuff, mostly," she answered, no longer bothering to hide her Northern accent. "The Cure, anything Jack White does, The Modern Lovers," she listed, pointing to the faded heart logo on her sweatshirt, "The Smiths and The Stone Roses, sometimes, and a bunch of old classic stuff."

He nodded, respectful of her taste, and opened his mouth to suggest some other bands. Before he got a chance, though, he saw two sketchy-looking blokes about his age round the corner in front of him. Thinking quickly, he pulled Cat into an alley. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "you have to trust me and you have to play along, alright?"

Steely eyes wide with fear, she bobbed her head in uncertain acknowledgement.

"I'm really sorry about this," he repeated as the sound of steps grew louder. When it sounded like the men were close, he leaned her against the brick alley wall and crashed his rain-soaked lips onto hers.

She resisted at first, but soon gave into his heated snog. It sounded like the men were passing...

The footsteps stopped. "Wot 'ave we 'ere?" a cruel voice growled.

Gendry pulled away from Cat's lips. "Just me and my girl," he said confidently, hoping the thugs didn't notice her bristle at being called his 'girl,' "You lot got a problem with that?"

Lightning cracked in the distance and the cruel voice spoke again, coming from the smaller of the two men. They seemed to be about Gendry's age, maybe a bit younger. "As a matter o' fact we do, mate," he adjusted the ridiculous old-fashioned bowler hat he was wearing. "Y'see, me an' Squeak 'ere like to 'ave us a taste of all the pretty young lasses on this block, an' we ain't never met thissun, so if you could be so kind as t' pass 'er over—"

Gendry's fist slammed into his teeth before he could finish his foul sentence. It knocked the thug to the ground, but his huge friend Squeak was more than ready to take on Gendry. He ducked a clumsy punch and delivered his own to Squeak's throat, which didn't deter the large man in the slightest.

As Gendry occupied himself with Squeak, the smaller foe slowly rose again and moved towards Cat. Unflinchingly, she delivered a solid kick to his guts that sent him back to the ground, and another to his genitals once he landed in a dirty puddle.

Squeak's jaw gave a sickening crunch as Gendry rammed his head into it. The two men subdued, Gendry grabbed Cat's wrist and ran with her, profusely apologizing for both kissing her and leaving her vulnerable in the fight.

Once they were a safe distance away, Cat stopped him "Will you _shut up?_ Snogging me there probably saved my life, and I knocked that bastard down better than you did." It was absolutely pouring now, and thunder rumbled through the dark night.

"Nicely done, that was," he conceded, grateful that they were getting close to the palace. Hands deep in his pockets, he avoided meeting her eyes. Faked or not, it had been a nice snog. "You should...you should bring that tambura down to Mott's sometime, it probably needs serviced. I can teach you to tune it and whatever," he offered, trying not to sound like he was using the fact that he'd saved her from assault as a springboard to ask her out.

She stopped at the edge of Visenya Park, under a street lamp. "Maybe," she answered unconvincingly, "but I'm hoping I won't be stuck here too long." Their eyes met, and she went silent for a moment before looking over her shoulder. "Anyways, I can make it from here. Thanks, though," she added warmly.

"Nah, don't thank me. I wouldn't have felt right leaving you on the street."

Cat nodded, not really listening. "So long, then..."

Before Gendry could register what was happening, Cat leaned up and forward and planted a small, unsure kiss on his lips. She turned and nearly ran through the park and towards the Red Keep, leaving him quite gobsmacked.

Gendry had been careful to avoid the street of their altercation on his way home. His heart was pounding with adrenaline—from the kiss, the fight, and the _other_ kiss—and he walked quickly back to Taurus Lane. There were millions of people in King's Landing, and he'd probably never see her again, but shit. He felt all queer inside, like he'd not gotten enough sleep or been drugged or something. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he went up the steps to his apartment and turned the key. What he really needed was a stiff drink.

Locking all three of the locks on his door behind him (one could never be too careful in this neighborhood), he kicked off his boots and shed his wet jumper, throwing it on the small sofa. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked on the television to watch the news before stepping into his tidy, cramped kitchen. The news was just silly feature stories about the royal family and whatnot, the sort of filler that came before the hard stories. As he opened his cabinet for scotch and a tumbler, he heard the Dornish anchor drawl on about the Prime Minister's family putting down one of their dogs after it bit Prince Joffrey. Gendry snorted, looking to the television in the hopes of footage of the spoiled prince being bitten. Instead of footage, there was a picture of the Minister's five children. The picture zoomed slowly in on the youngest daughter as the anchor spoke. "Minister Stark's youngest daughter Arya was the owner of the offending dog, who seems to have..."

Gendry didn't hear the rest on account of the boom of thunder that came from outside. He didn't have to hear it, really. "Cat from Braavos my bleeding arse," he moaned out loud. "I snogged the Prime fucking Minister's daughter!" Taking a deep breath, he put the glass tumbler away and replaced it with a large plastic cup, pouring an unhealthy amount of scotch into it. He took a lengthy quaff, topped the cup off, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fucking idiot," he snapped at himself, "that family's been all over the goddamned news, no shitting wonder you recognized her!" He shut the cabinet, banged his head against it a few times, and drank more, practically waiting for the Royal Guard to beat down his door and arrest him.


	2. That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

**A/N: **_A note about worldbuilding-I know I didn't make it super clear, but this is a modern Westeros AU, meaning that all of the places and locations we know from the books have the same names, but they exist in a modern, early 2010s world, with all of that culture involved as well. (I sort of imagine Westeros sitting somewhere south and a little west of the British Isles. Either that or in a corner of the Pacific sort of like Australia.) I'm sorry that that doesn't make very much sense; I almost didn't post this story because I knew the world building was pretty shoddy, but I loved the prologue chapter enough to post it anyways. Also, I have this story on a tentative schedule of updating every two weeks, but the next one is still pretty foggy, so no promises. I love getting follows, but I like reviews even better!  
Also, I added a more complete summary to the start of the last chapter, so you should double back and read it!_

* * *

**_Three months later_**

"Aaaack!" Arya shrieked. She tumbled out of the third part of her warrior pose and hit her yoga mat hard, grumpy at whoever had decided to laugh right outside the door. She'd always been a tad clumsy, but this was getting ridiculous. Something had just been _distracting_ her lately. She didn't much mind if it ruined a yoga pose or two, but Syrio had ended their last practice early when she'd kicked his leg after he instructed her to punch the target in his hand, and whatever this was, she refused to allow it to interfere with kickboxing.

She poked her head out of the door of the empty room with the wide windows that she'd been practicing in, listening for the ghost of laughter that had knocked her over. It'd sounded so familiar...

When she, her sister, and her father had first come to King's Landing, Sansa became obsessed with yoga, going on and on about the "inner light" it opened within her. Arya thought it was all rubbish, until her new kickboxing coach forced her into practicing some basic poses to improve her core strength. She took to it, and after laughingly telling her older sister that most of what she was doing wasn't even proper yoga, Sansa had abandoned it.

Her coach, Syrio Forel, was easily Arya's favorite person in King's Landing, mostly because he wasn't actually from the city. The short, slim older man was a retired fighter, one of the best of his time, who'd lived his whole life in Braavos. His style of fighting was queer, but it suited Arya's size and build extremely well, and the punching bag almost looked like Prince Joffrey, in the right light.

Arya gave up looking for what she'd thought she'd heard and went back into the spacious room. She yanked her iPhone and her headphones out of her backpack, flicking through iTunes to find her meditation playlist. The ambient music surrounded her as she laid back on the thick yoga mat, giving up on the rest of her routine and skipping straight to the meditation at the end.

Eyes closed, she cleared her mind. It worked best when she visualized her mind as a box that she emptied, one thought at a time. Moments later, the box was completely empty, and she inhaled deeply, hyper aware of her surroundings. Her slowed pulse and breathing created a powerful rhythm, and she let the dull beats wash over her conscious. The slow song sounded, in her mind, like the color blue. It was a hobby of hers to match sounds and things and feelings to colors: a tough kickboxing practice was bright red, sleep was a soft lavender-grey, her parents were a warm and comforting rich brown. This state of deep relaxation was blue, though, and an eerily familiar blue...

Arya's pulse shot up and her concentration shattered. Her adventure with Gendry was three months behind her, and even though she'd probably never see him again, the event had left an indelible mark deep inside her. The handsome, stubborn luthier's apprentice had invaded her dreams and stolen her sleep. He was just visible out of the corner of her eye everywhere she went, but nowhere to be found when she turned. Perhaps most infuriatingly, his lips had burned themselves into her flesh in a way she couldn't forget.

She'd thought about going to the music store where he worked after that night, but how could she manage that? As far as he knew, she was Cat from Braavos. But that was a farce, because she was Arya Stark, daughter of Prime Minister Eddard Stark. She couldn't go anywhere without one or two of the Gold Men around as a chaperone, and a paparazzi or two on a slow day for gossip. Plus, it wasn't as if she could just barge into the shop and say, "Oh, hello Gendry! Remember, we snogged in an alley in Flea Bottom? Well, I kind of fell in love with you and just thought I'd stop by! Oh, who are these men? I know I didn't mention it before, but I'm sort of the Prime Minister's daughter and this is the Royal Guard tasked to follow me around and make sure I don't snog wayward tradesmen. Funny, isn't it?" She huffed, frustrated.

As soon as she'd snuck back into her rooms in the castle that night, she'd thrown open her laptop and combed every corner of the Internet looking for evidence of Gendry or anything about him. Without knowing his last name, her Google searching had been limited, and if he had a Facebook, he was smart enough to keep it well guarded. Mott's Music didn't have a site, either, just a few glowing reviews hidden in different pockets of the web. Disappointed and feeling creepy, she had given up and gone to bed.

Rebellious though she was, Arya had never been kissed in the nearly 17 years of life that led up to that night in the rain. She'd never concerned herself with boys like her sister and her gaggle of friends had, for so long that her mother and father once sat her down and explained that they would still love her no matter whom she preferred._ I prefer Gendry_, she thought, half-hating herself for being so obsessed with someone she'd met once.

**_"I GET KNOCKED DOWN, BUT I GET UP AGAI—"_**

Arya cursed, ripping her headphones off. She'd forgotten to switch her phone to airplane mode before laying down to meditate, and as a result was treated to a very loud interruption of her thoughts in the form of Tubthumping, her hilarious and obnoxious ringtone. Sansa was calling, and while she didn't want to answer, she had to.

"'Lo?" she said cautiously, fully prepared to shut down anything Sansa tried to involve her in.

"Arya! Honestly, where have you been? Come to my room, I have something for you." Wise to Arya's ways, Sansa hung up before she could be denied.

Grumbling, Arya rolled up her yoga mat and tucked it under her arm, swinging her backpack onto her shoulder and heading back to her and Sansa's rooms.

The Prime Minister had his own tower in the Red Keep, with chambers for his family. Sansa and Arya had claimed two large rooms two stories up, with a shared bathroom and a sitting room of sorts. Arya chose her room because the window was easy to climb out of; Sansa chose hers because of the light blue walls and the beaded dragonflies on the duvet.

Arya was at least glad that Sansa sounded more cheerful. The already stressful relationship between the two sisters had nearly been irreparably broken when Arya's dog Nymeria had run off the night before she was to be put down and Sansa's gentle pup Lady had died in her place by order of Queen Cersei. Ever since then, Sansa had either been crying in her room or seeking solace with her boyfriend, Prince Joffrey. It was interesting that she found so much comfort in the spoiled prince—it was he who had ordered Nymeria put down after a harmless bite—but Sansa was quite in love with the tall, blonde young man, and it wasn't Arya's place to question that, even if she thought he was a toad in prince's clothing.

Sansa was on Arya's bed when she finally got to her room. "What are you doing in here?" she grumbled, setting down her things.

"It's a wonder you can even see me under all this mess, really! Hundreds of years old, this room is, and you somehow see fit to throw your underwear about the floor like it's a cheap hotel!" The words were scolding, but her tone wasn't. "That's just you, though. Come here, I have stuff for you!"

Arya sat warily on the edge of her unmade bed, certain that this would be another botched makeover attempt. "It's not a blouse or something, is it?" she asked tentatively.

Sansa rolled her eyes, tying up her long auburn hair. "Don't be stupid, I've given up on trying to make you dress like a human being. Here," she proferred, holding out a small glass pot with a black lid, "it's a marvelous dark green eyeshadow. I bought it for myself, but it made me look like cheap Christmas decorations. Oh, and this!" she reached behind her, pulling out a soft-looking cap. "I finished knitting this this morning, but, again, it looks terrible in my hair. My coloring is impossibly difficult to accessorize," she whined, handing the items to her little sister, "but it's beautiful and the yarn was great so I didn't want it to go to waste."

Arya took both items from her, ignoring the ridiculous complaints. Sansa was beautiful by any standard, tall and slim with their mother's fiery Tully hair and striking, icy blue eyes, and any protestation of that obvious truth on her part was just her natural modesty. Arya turned the gifts over in her hands, her fears of a makeover confirmed. But the hat was even softer than it looked, dark grey wool with strands of lavender and darker purple twisted through. "It's very pretty," she said honestly, prompting Sansa to explain how she'd made it in jargon Arya didn't understand. Usually, the younger girl avoided traditionally pretty things. That was Sansa's domain, and she never felt she could compare, so she didn't bother trying. But the slouchy cap wasn't traditionally pretty—the lace-like design looked like queer, curly leaves, and the colors were striking, but odd—and she was drawn to it. She put it on and looked to Sansa for approval.

"It's gorgeous, Arya!" Sansa gushed, smiling widely. "Honestly, I should just knit you things...Try the eyeshadow, will you?"

She stood and strode over to the long mirror, only because she was glad that Sansa had finally cheered up. Her older sister followed eagerly, smacking her hand away when Arya tried to use her finger as a makeup brush. "What are you doing? I know I bought you a really nice set of brushes!" The redhead tore through Arya's makeup bag, finally pulling out a barely-used shadow brush. "Close your eyes, you know the drill," she said lazily, setting about applying the forest green shadow.

Arya tried really, really hard to be patient. Sansa had been sitting her down for forced makeovers since they were eight and ten years old, after their Aunt Lysa had given them each a kit of shiny lip glosses for Christmas. She'd always hated being a prisoner under Sansa's girly tortures, but as she got older, it no longer inspired outright rebellion. Especially now, when they were all each other had in a new city—_Well,_ she corrected herself, _she's all I have, at least_—she tolerated them. When she turned 14, Sansa had taught her how to put her black eyeliner on, even if she had called it dreadful and gothic, and aside from the occasional 'Sansa' gifts of makeup brushes and pretty tops, the presents she gave Arya tended to at least be close to her interests.

"There," Sansa said proudly, "look!"

Arya slowly blinked her eyes open. She had to admit, the combination of the hat and the dark, smoky green was kind of striking, and her mind went immediately to what Gendry would think, which caused her to flush with embarrassment. She winced, hoping Sansa didn't notice.

She did. "What, do you not like it?"

"No! I mean—I do! It's really nice, it's just, I'm not...I just wonder—" she struggled for words, her blush deepening.

Sansa's chin nearly hit the floor. "ARYA! You're thinking about a BOY, aren't you?! Who is he? Is it a he? Where did you...? Have you—"

"Be quiet!" Arya hissed, astounded that Sansa had deduced that from her pitiful stuttering. "Dad could be right out there!"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Please. He's on business all day. But Dad's not allowed to know?" Her eyes went wide. "This is better than my news!"

Arya stopped mid-eye roll. "What news?"

"Oh!" Sansa squeaked. "Nothing, really!"

She didn't believe her for a second. The sisters stood facing each other, arms crossed and expressions skeptical.

"I'll tell if you tell," Sanda offered, her voice deadly and even.

"You tell first," Arya countered, in the same tone.

"Deal." she took a deep breath. "Joffrey proposed to me," she announced quickly, bracing herself for Arya's explosion.

"What the fuck, are you serious? You're only 18! What did you say?" She cried out, just as Sansa had predicted.

"Mum and Dad were only 17 when they got married!" She defended earnestly.

Arya groaned. Her sister's reaction indicated that she'd accepted the proposal. "That was a long time ago, and really different!" she insisted, "And you've only known him for a few months!"

"I've known him since we were children," she corrected, "we've just only been dating for a few months. Anyways, I've said yes, and we agreed to tell Dad, the King and the Queen this weekend," she preened girlishly. Arya couldn't believe her ears. "Now what's your secret?"

"It's not much of a secret," she said glumly, eyes on the floor. "I snuck out one night a while ago and shared a cab with some guy. It's not a big deal."

"Well did you get his number or anything?" Sansa pressed, like she _hadn't_ just announced that she was engaged.

"No! I didn't even get his name." She didn't even feel bad about the half-truth. This kind of information could be deadly in Sansa's hands. "It's not like it could be anything, he was way older than me. Probably older than Joffrey, even."

Her older sister sighed. "That's so romantic! Did he recognize you?"

"Of course not! The bloody _Queen_ doesn't recognize me half the time, why should some guitar maker—"

"A guitar maker? That's so you, Arya! Are you ever going to see him again? Did he get out of the cab before you? Where does he live?"

"Holy shit, will you calm down? I'm not going to stalk him!" She really, really regretted opening this particular can of worms. "And it's not 'romantic,' either, it's pure chance. But no, I'm not going to see him again, because it was three months ago and he probably doesn't remember me and if he did he thinks I'm—"

"—Cat, from Braavos?" her sister guessed, well aware of Arya's preferred alter-ego. "What did he look like? Did he kiss you? Oh my god, your face is so red, he totally kissed you, didn't he?"

Arya's face was on fire, so she hid it behind her hands and mumbled a response. "Really tall. Really muscular. Really attractive. Really black hair. Really blue eyes. Yes, but only so some creeps wouldn't hassle me because they thought he was my boyfriend. Can we please never talk about this again?" she finished, begging.

Sansa crushed her sister into a hug, ignoring her pleas. "Shit, that was your first kiss, wasn't it? Arya, that's seriously straight out of a movie. It's like Cinderella and the Prince and the Pauper and Anastasia all in one! Now you just have to meet again and—"

Arya broke free, shaking her head. "No. It's not like any of those. At all. Have you ever even seen...You know what? Never mind. It was three months ago and it's in the past and I will seriously kick you in the face if you don't shut up about it," she snapped, tired of Sansa's brand of bullying.

"You're terrible sometimes," Sansa said, slightly hurt.

"Sorry. Hey, thanks for the gifts, and for...listening, and stuff," she said sincerely, nervously toeing a pair of discarded jeans on the hardwood floor.

Sansa smiled and adjusted Arya's hat in quiet acceptance and left after reminding Arya to keep her secret.

The small TV in the shop was tuned, as ever, to the news. For whatever reason, Gendry only seemed to catch the bullshit gossip and entertainment portions, which is why he was only half-listening as he restrung a guitar.

It was simple, mindless work: loosen and remove the old strings, clean the guitar, put in the new strings. Restringing was one of the first things Tobho had let him do when he started helping in the store twelve years ago, starting with the guitars hanging on the wall and eventually moving to those of actual customers.

He'd only been nine when the important older man in the dark blue suit had led him out of the orphanage and to Mott's Music. The gentleman had kindly explained that Gendry didn't have to live in the noisy, small house with all the other children anymore, but that he did have to help in the store by doing whatever Mr. Mott told him to do. He also said that boys from the orphanage didn't normally get these kind of opportunities until they were at least through with primary school, but that Gendry was a special case. Mr. Mott took some papers from important man and signed them, and the important man had bid them goodbye. Mr. Mott told Gendry to call him Tobho, and he moved into the small room next to his above the shop. From then on to when he was 16, he helped Tobho when wasn't at school. Tobho taught him to play guitar and paid him a decent allowance until he was old enough to be legally employed, then took him to the bank to open a savings account when he got his first cheque. The cinnamon-skinned man wasn't exactly a father to him, but he was always kind.

Once he turned 16 and finished secondary school, he got his own apartment and started working full-time. The money was good, the work was enjoyable, and an aging Tobho had promoted him to manager less than a year ago. Not that there was much to manage—they were the only two employees of the tiny store, and Gendry had been keeping the books and inventory since he was 18—but his pay now more accurately reflected his hard work. He'd always been a hard worker, though. One of the only things he remembered of his mother before her death was of her and her sewing machine at their small kitchen table at all hours of the night, mending clothes as a supplement to the meager income of her other two jobs. She'd often tell him little things as she worked, like that good blood and lots of money weren't nearly as important as being a good man, working hard, and helping those in need.

Gendry stood and stretched, pausing to run his thumb over the tiny metal bobbin that hung from a thin leather cord on his neck. It was the only thing he'd saved from their apartment after she died. Often, he wished he'd gotten more, but he was only four at the time, and the Gold Coats had been so impatient…the sewing machine had been right there, and she'd only just taught him how to open the little compartment at the base. So his young self, barely even aware of what was happening, took only the bobbin.

He went back to the guitar, turning the TV volume up to drown out his thoughts. The male anchor's smooth baritone was in the middle of a sentence. "–we come back from the next commercial, we'll discuss tantalizing rumours of the Prime Minister's daughter's engagement!"

Gendry snapped his head towards the television, but it was already showing a commercial for vacations in The Vale. _Why do I even care?_ he wondered, twisting the silver-plated machinehead and resuming his work. _She wasn't even that good-looking, really. Just some queer little girl who needed my help. She probably doesn't even remember my name._ He was genuinely surprised that he remembered as much of their encounter as he did, after the amount he'd had to drink directly after. Her eyes were such an intense, steely grey…

The string snapped, flying up and hitting his cheek like a whip. He grunted in pain and nearly toppled off of the stool he was sitting on, muttering an unintelligible string of vicious curses as he wiped away a small trickle of blood with his hand. Wincing, he mentally berated himself for getting so distracted.

The news programme returned, and it was revealed that the daughter in question wasn't even Arya. Her older sister, Sansa, a leggy bird with a thick mop of red hair, had been spotted wearing a ring on 'that special finger' in some cafe or another. Grumpily, he shut the television off and decided to take an early lunch. He grabbed his coat and sunglasses from the end of the worktable and strode out of the back room. Tobho was behind the counter, speaking to an older man in a suit who looked like…No, it couldn't be. Why would the Prime Minister be in the store? For a panicked moment, he thought Minister Stark had learned about the night in the rain three months before. His terror doubled, naturally, when the Prime Minister straightened his coat and called out to him.

"Gendry Waters, is it?" he asked, his voice deep. "This is an excellent little shop…Mr. Mott told me you're the manager." He held his hand out for Gendry to shake. "My daughter Arya would love it here. I'm Ned Stark."

Gendry shook his hand, certain his face had turned a mottled purple in embarrassment at the mention of Arya. He hoped the Minister only thought he was starstruck. "Th–Thank you, Sir. I mean, Mr. St–Mr. Minister," he stuttered.

"Mr. Stark works for me, Gendry," he said kindly. His face was plain and honest, wrinkled as much from smile and laughter as stress and worry. Gendry decided that his mother would have liked this man, and that relaxed him somewhat…until he saw that the White Coat escorting him was none other than the famous retired soldier Barristan Selmy and he was nervous all over again. If he so much as put a toe out of line, Selmy could kill him in two dozen different ways without breaking a sweat.

"It was nice to meet you, Gendry. If ever a time comes when you'd rather help manage the country than a music shop, you can call me." He handed over a small, dark grey business card with a white wolf in the top corner. Minister Stark gave Tobho a cordial goodbye and left the store, followed by the legendary former soldier.

"What was _that_ about?" Gendry asked confusedly, one hand twisted in his dark hair.

Tobho only shrugged. "I'll tell you when you're older. Grab your things, I'm closing up for today. Go home, Gendry," he instructed casually, as if visits from the PM were a daily occurrence.

His head was spinning with questions when he walked out of the store and towards his beat up little silver car, affectionately referred to as the Millennium Falcon. On his drive home, he tried to assemble a list of any possible reason that the Prime Minister could have had for needing to talk to Tobho, and by the time he got to Taurus Lane he was more confused than he'd been in the store. He parked and and pulled the business card out his back pocket, turning it over in his hands. Bemusedly, he noticed that the thick card was the same shade of grey as Arya and the Minister's eyes.


	3. Panic

**A/N: **_Okay, so here's the next one. It's a little bit short, and it basically exists to move the plot forward. I wanted it to be a little longer, but it ended up finishing here. I promise there will be Gendry next chapter! Reviews keep me going!_

* * *

It was an imprecise science, packing. At least the way Arya did it. Basically, she shoved anything she could into her trunk without rhyme or reason and as fast as she could. Any excitement she had for returning home was swallowed whole by her worry. Her little brother Bran was in a coma back north as the result of a nasty fall during an spontaneous and unauthorized rock climbing practice, and she was desperate to get home to see him. They weren't as close as they had been as children, but Bran was only a year and a half younger than her. Of all the Stark children, she, Sansa and Bran were the closest in age to each other, and Bran was as good a friend as any she'd had.

For good measure, she stuffed the hat from Sansa with two or three of her favorite outfits into her faded black backpack, in case the train mislaid her luggage or something crazy like that. She desperately wished Nymeria was there. Before the dog had run away, Arya had been teaching her to fetch and carry things, and she'd probably have been a neater packet than Arya was.

She started loosely folding her pajamas. Third in the stack of shirts was a large, dark blue monster that read 'THE VALE SCHOOL FOR BOYS' in thick and peeling old white letters. It had been her father's when he was in school, when he'd first met Robert Baratheon. On an impulse, it went into the backpack as well. "It's all your fault I'm here to begin with," she announced over her shoulder to the shirt.

It sort of true, in a complicated and twice- or thrice-removed sort of way. Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, along with most of the country's privileged Lord's sons, had attended the school at some point. The King and her father had even been in the same year, and had enlisted together after graduation. They'd grown even closer together when Prince Rhaegar had "kidnapped" her aunt Lyanna and Robert had led the charge to rescue her, and closer again when Robert took the throne after King Aerys burned himself alive in a fit of madness. Now, her father was King Robert's right-hand man. "He does more work than the King himself," Arya grumbled, throwing her combat boots haphazardly into the heavy trunk. _The King doesn't do hardly anything,_ she thought, careful of who may be listening. _My father's running his damned kingdom and the fat bastard is out hunting or something. _

The thought had barely formed before her quiet afternoon of packing was permanently ended. Noises and shouting erupted all at once from what seemed like every corner of the castle. Shocked but wary, she froze, trying to pick out what the voices were saying.

"…The King!"

"Shot…..injured!"

"Call the…!"

"..Hide!…Media!"

"The K..! He's..."

Arya froze. _What?_ She tossed on her boots, threw a few things into her backpack, zipped it shut and threw it over her shoulder. _I need to find my father._ If anyone knew what was going on, it would be Ned Stark.

* * *

Robert was barely breathing. His broad, fleshy face had lost all of its usual flush, and the pain he was in would have rendered him completely sober for the first time in years, but the heavy dose of morphine prevented even that as he mumbled through the changes he was making to his will.

Ned listened carefully to his friend's weak words, dutifully recording them. "Sign?" he asked, his own voice less strong than he'd hoped as he held out the sheet of paper.

"You sign everything else for me, don't you?" He coughed, blood splattering his thick fist in an attempt to cover his mouth.

The young nurse blanched. "Fetch the Doctor, Miss," Ned said quietly, signing the paper with his full title.

"I don't need any damned doctor," Robert protested, trying and failing to raise his head off the thick white pillow. "I just need some brandy is a–" his throat caught and he coughed again, not bothering to cover the blood and phlegm that came from his pale lips. "I need…need…" Robert gasped, his blue eyes bulging open. "…Lyanna!"

Ned leapt up at the mention of his long-dead sister's name, leaning over his friend.. _The doctor. Where is…?_ his head snapped towards the heavy door, creaking open in response. Mouth hanging open in dull shock, he must have said something–the doctors rushed to the King's side, but it was too late. The King was dead. He stumbled blindly out of the room, headed vaguely for his office and processing the loss of his friend.

* * *

She reached the corridor of her father's office and stopped short. The door had closed as she turned the corner, but raised voices were coming from inside. Arya had no interest in interrupting her father's business–she'd already received several scoldings for doing exactly that–but she was worried. First Bran was hurt, and now something had happened to King Robert? The door to her father's office opened and the voices inside became audible. She looked up from the hand she hadn't known she was picking at. _Stupid nervous habit._ Her father had come into the hall at some point and entered his office, and now she could hear what the people inside were saying.

"Lord Eddard Stark," began one such voice, young and dark. _Joffrey. What was he waiting in Dad's office for?_

"Your Highness. I am sorry if I am the first to inform you," Ned began, his deep voice heavy with emotion and slightly muffled, "but…your father–"

"You think I don't know about my father? What the fuck d'you think I'm here for?"

"Your Majesty, if there is anything I may do for you or your mother in your time of need–"

Joffrey interrupted again. "You've done enough! You're under arrest, Stark! For killing my father!"

The color drained from Arya's face. _This can't be. There's no way!_

There were no sounds of struggle. When she heard handcuffs clink, she ran back to her and Sansa's rooms, searching desperately for her sister. Her room was empty: it was only then that Arya vaguely recalled Sansa mentioning an outing with the Queen. She quickly quelled the temptation to call or text her. For Arya to get out, she couldn't leave any signs of knowing what had happened. _Shit. There's no saving her. Unless…?_ She threw open her sister's silly diary, struggling to remember the code they'd had as girls.

_ ._

_D A D . I N . R._

_R U N . G T . O U T._

_-A._

She didn't have time to remember the 'E.' Noiselessly, she ducked back into her own room for the last time, tossing her phone on the bed before throwing open the windows and slinking down the wall, grateful for all the times she'd helped Bran practice rock climbing.

* * *

Her first stop was a convenience store. Staring straight at the ground, she headed for the bathroom. Once inside, she locked the door and crumpled, sliding down to the sticky, dirty floor. _What now?_ She had no had to hide, and she had to avoid being tracked at all costs. As far as money went, her cards were useless: Sansa's love of crime procedural telly shows had taught her that much, so all she had was $30-odd in cash. She _could_ risk clearing out her debit card at an ATM, but they had cameras on them and there would be witnesses…it was a possibility, but a slim one. The credit cards in her parent's name had to go right away. _For big, pre-approved purchases and emergencies only, right, Mum? _She slid them from their pocket in her wallet and laid them on the floor in front of her while she rooted around her bag for her utility knife. It was a rather nice knife, a gift from her cousin Jon that he'd given before enlisting. Arya called it Needle, as he'd given it to her at the end of a two weeks-long battle against her tutor's insistence on learning some sort of craft besides cutting up t-shirts.

Needle in hand, she stood one card up on its edge and began to saw through it. It was much harder work than she'd guessed: her hands were shaking and the blade's serrated tip kept catching on the plastic, threatening to knock the card out of her sweaty grip. Half way through the first vertical cut, she gave up, opting instead to tear the rest by twisting it back and forward. When that was through, she ran several scratches through the magnetic strip on the back and used the smaller blade in the handle to scrape off her name and the card number. She threw the scrapings into the sink and cut each half in half again. By the time she was done, she realized she was crying. Stubbornly wiping the tears away, she rose shakily to her feet. _How do I make myself less recognizable? _She remembered how different she'd looked when Sansa had half-made her over, and tried to replicate that as best as possible. Her unsteady hands and finger-brushes would never be as smooth or precise as her sister's, and she couldn't get the pretty knitted hat to sit on her head in the way Sansa had, but Arya still considered it a marked separation from her usually bare face.

Arya threw one quarter of her parent's credit card in the trash and flushed another quarter, saving the other half for the bins outside the store. She slipped her backpack back on and reached for the door...but faltered. Where could she go? _North. _If she could find a way to get north, anonymously...She'd be safe before she got past Moat Cailin! But how to actually get there?

There was a bus depot three miles from the palace; she and Syrio had gone on training runs to and from it before. Surely she could find a bus headed north! Confidently, Arya left the bathroom and the store, almost forgetting to dispose of the rest of the card.

An hour and a few diversions later, she found the bus depot.

Arya faced the clouded glass, peering in at the bored-looking woman behind it. "Bus Depot," the woman said listlessly. "How can we help you."

It wasn't exactly a question. "Erm..." she collected herself. "I have $30, and I need to get as far north as possible with it. Which bus should I take?"

The bored woman snapped her gum and pointed at the faded, complicated-looking chart taped to part of the window. "You tell me."

Arya squinted to read the faded text. It looked like her money would get her a one-way ticket to Lannisport, where the Queen's family sat on piles of gold and their own pride. Every single North-bound bus went from King's Landing to Lannisport before going anywhere else—she could have gone to Riverrun, where her uncle lived, or the Eyrie, where she had a daft aunt, but the buses all stopped through Lannisport first, and that was no good. Even if she did take a bus, they only left in the morning...where would she spend the night?

"Thanks," she told the bored woman, without meaning it. She didn't get a response, but she wouldn't have heard one anyways. Dazed, she walked away, dimly aware that the sun was setting and that she needed a plan fast. _Who can I trust? How can I get_ _home_?


	4. Please Don't Drop Me Home

Gendry was gently setting a fingerboard when the bell above the shop's door rang. "Just a mo'!" he called, setting the work down gently and turning down the radio. He ran a hand through his hair as he opened the door into the main part of the shop with his hip.

"Welcome to Mot—" he stopped short as his eyes fell upon the scrawny customer. "Tell me, Miss Stark, do all tradesmen in King's Landing get to take you home a few times in their lives, or am I just that lucky?" he asked, pulling her into the store and shutting the door.

She winced, apparently hoping that he hadn't realized who she really was.

"Shouldn't you have an armed guard or something, anyways? Come on," he said, taking her arm, "I'll drop you home before you get in trouble."

"No!" She half-shrieked, pulling away from him quickly. "You can't! It's not...I can't..."

Gendry pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you mean, you _can't?_"

Her eyes flitted nervously about the shop. "Is anyone else here?"

"No."

"Do your security cameras have audio?"

He raised a brow at her. "There hasn't been a tape in them since I was thirteen. Am I about to commit treason or something?"

She didn't answer directly, which he took as a bad sign. "Is there someplace more private-" her voice went quiet, and he thought she may have blushed a bit, "-where we can talk?"

He eyed her warily, but nodded and led her towards the work room in the back. "Sure. Follow me."

* * *

"So to recap: the King might be dead, your brother Robb is in a c–"

"Bran. Bran's in a coma."

"Right. The prince your sister's going to marry arrested your father, you've run away with twenty bucks and you want me to harbor you as a fugitive _and_ give you a job until you have enough money to go home. Is that all?" he asked sarcastically, pulling the bobbin out from under his shirt and spinning it with his thumb.

Arya toed a peeled-up corner of linoleum on the floor, nodding glumly. "I also don't have a place to stay."

Gendry actually laughed out loud at that, impressed by how ridiculous his life could be. "How are you going to keep people from recognizing you?"

"I'll be Cat–"

"No, you won't, because if I almost recognized you, you can be damned sure someone else will. So unless you come up with something better…" he countered, shaking his head, "I'm not sure I can help. Prince Jackhole is crazy, and I don't particularly want to die."

Arya looked crushed, like she hadn't considered the possibility that her flimsy disguise was just that. Then, her eyes squinted and her mouth turned to a hard line. It was actually a sort of terrifying face, for such a small girl. "So you'll not help me, then." It wasn't a question.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly. "I…I will, but mostly because I feel like you'll kill me if I refuse."

Arya smiled proudly.

"I'm not sure about the job, though. It doesn't sound like a very good idea. But you can stay at my place, for sure. For now, just….stay back here until I'm off, alright? And don't touch anything!"

She rolled her eyes, but he'd gone back out front. Arya sat idle for what felt like hours but really only amounted to thirty or forty minutes–apparently she'd forgotten how long it took time to pass without a smartphone to play around with. When she saw how little the clock had changed, she frowned deeply, then looked around, an idea forming. She took Needle out of her backpack and headed slowly into the bathroom, marked "EMPLOYEES ONLY." Once inside, she locked the door and stared into the mirror, practicing her yoga breathing to relax the shaking in her hands.

The light flickered annoyingly, and the smell of generic antibacterial soap was strong enough to make her nose wrinkle. Very slowly, she pulled her long, nut-brown hair into two low ponytails, then opened Needle up to the largest blade. Holding the right ponytail in her right hand and Needle in the other, she began to cut. Well…chop. Facing the blade away from herself (she wasn't stupid, after all), she sliced through the first ponytail. It was a terribly awkward motion, and she was certain her newly shorn hair looked all sorts of ridiculous, but she could clean it up with the little scissor attachment when she was through with the other side. Once that side was done, she shook out what was left of her hair and switched to the tiny folding shears to even out the edges. It didn't work quite as well as she'd hoped, but it did manage to make her less immediately recognizable. Once she took off her makeup and put on more masculine clothes, she could maybe even pass for a young teenage boy. Arya buried the messy remnants of her ponytails under some paper towels in the trash and left the bathroom.

* * *

Gendry came into the back room a little less than an hour later. "Nice haircut, George Harrison," he said sarcastically, reaching into the lightly rusted fridge. "D'you want something to drink? I've got Coke, water, and soy sauce packets."

"Coke, please," she answered quietly, a good deal more polite than usual.

He took two glass bottles from the fridge and opened them both with the old bottle opener magnet that clung to the dingy old appliance. "Drink up, George," he said, handing her a bottle.

"Don't call me that," she responded weakly, accepting the drink.

"What would you prefer? John? Paul? You're not a bloody _Ringo_ girl, are y–"

"–Harry," she cut in, unamused. "Harry works."

Gendry shrugged. "Alright. You hungry, Harry? I was gonna close up and then grab some pizza–"

"–I can't exactly waltz into a pizza par–"

"–How thick d'you think I am? I'm gonna bring it back. What do you eat on your pizza?"

"Oh." She felt a bit stupid for not having thought of that. "Um…Cheese, pineapple, mushroom, whatever."

"Together?" He scrunched up his nose in disgust. "Gross. You're getting cheese. Cinnamon or garlic knot?"

Though the garlic knot had sounded appetizing, Arya was embarrassed to find herself reluctant to be around Gendry with raging dragon breath. "Erm. Cinnamon."

"Hope you like diabetes, then," he answered, "it's about the size of your head." He set his Coke bottle down on a work table and began pulling off his red collared work shirt. Much to Arya's further embarrassment, his grey undershirt lifted with it, exposing about 8 inches of his well-sculpted stomach and the dark hair that led a coarse path down it.

If Gendry noticed Arya's blushing, he didn't acknowledge it. After he righted his shirt, he tipped back the rest of his drink and tossed the bottle into the trash. "I'll be back in about 20 minutes," he told her. "Stay back here, and if Tobho comes downstairs, tell him you're a friend from my apartment building or something. Oh," he added, stepping close to her, "by the way, guy's hair doesn't part like that. It sort of all grows out of one spot," he explained, taking the liberty to rake his fingers through her hair and fix it to his specifications.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

"No problem," he scratched her head, not unlike a dog. "Be careful, Harry."

* * *

**A/n: **_I'm SO SORRY this took so long! I've been sitting on it since about January and I finally realized that there wasn't a lot I could add to this chapter. In the next chapter, we get to see Gendry's apartment and more banter. Read and review!_


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